


Combat Medic

by Lunik



Series: Magnets, Mirrors and Misdirection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Thor (2011)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Get some therapy already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunik/pseuds/Lunik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Loki’s world comes apart and he falls. But he doesn’t land in New Mexico – his fall carries him to north London where he meets a man who can somehow accept him at his wildest and most self destructive.</p><p>It’s almost as if John Watson is used to tall-dark-and-crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combat Medic

“Hang on,” said John as they left the bar, “I forgot my coat inside. See if you can flag a taxi, Sherlock, I’ll be right back.”

He really had forgotten his coat, because Sherlock was difficult to fool. But that was fine, because it was right where he’d left it, folded over the back of his chair. He picked it up in passing, and approached the shadow at the other end of the bar, all slump-shouldered and inconspicuous. He had at least ten minutes, because Sherlock was rubbish at hailing taxis. Some day he might realise that standing on the pavement with your hand out wasn’t good enough for London taxis, but, knowing Sherlock, that wouldn’t change his behaviour in the slightest. John sat down next to the man he only knew as “Mister Lyesmith”.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that this has gone on long enough.”

The man at the bar straightened and flashed John a charming smile. “John Watson.” He said, like welcoming an old friend. “In the flesh at last. I should have been more careful, perhaps, but after you spotted me here I just didn’t have the heart to leave.” He reached out to one of the two drinks on the bar in front of him and pushed it towards John. Lager, John’s habitual order.

“I expected you to be taller.” John said, ignoring the drink. Lyesmith rolled his eyes scornfully and muttered something that sounded like _midgard_. He was actually taller than John would have expected, even seated at the bar, with slicked back hair, startling eyes and a very expensive suit.

“I don’t think you expected me to be any height,” he chided, “You only said that because it’s the kind of posturing you think is expected in this situation. It’s entirely unnecessary with me. That drink isn’t spiked, by the way.”

Shrugging amiably, John pulled it over and drank. He wasn’t surprised to note that it was Corona, his favourite, when he’d been drinking Fosters at the bar. He should have been surprised, but after years of being courted by men like Mycroft Holmes and Jim Moriarty for his ‘influence’ on Sherlock, people who could apparently read his mind had lost the ability to surprise him. He was offended and relieved in turns that Lyesmith had ignored him so far. “Either way,” he said conversationally, “you can stop it now.”

Lyesmith was observing him with a superior sort of smile that came nowhere near his eyes. “Stop what?” he asked, the picture of believable innocence.

“Messing with Sherlock.” John said simply. “It was funny to start with, but he’s beginning to work up an obsession, and it’s me who has to deal with that.”

Lyesmith leaned back with a delighted laugh. “Of course!” he said. “The faithful amanuensis must be responsible for Holmes’ mental wellbeing.” He took a sip from the wineglass in his hand, swallowing quickly as another thought occurred to him. “Mm- Tell me honestly now; has he cried yet?”

John shot him a withering glare, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. In actual fact he hadn’t much minded the Lyesmith cases. They had Sherlock incandescent because they were all thoroughly impossible, locked room mysteries or childish pranks that required the prankster to have been literally invisible, but for John they were practically a relief. As far as he could tell, Lyesmith never killed, or kidnapped or set bombs around people’s necks – whether that was through a natural disinclination for it or cautious observance of the law, John didn’t care. And Sherlock hadn’t cried, not even when he became the butt of Lyesmith’s jokes. He tilted his head, tipped an imaginary hat to the trickster who had Sherlock so stumped.

“Playing games with the media was funny, the false tips to the police were less fun, but you crossed the line when you did that thing with the head in the fridge. Breaking and entering aside, you do not touch Sherlock’s experiments.”

Lyesmith leaned in toward John, looking pleased with himself. “Oh, but I didn’t break and enter,” he smiled. “If you or Mister Holmes had chosen to involve the police at all, your landlady would have remembered exactly who she invited into the building. I’ve committed no crimes, John.”

John doubted that. Mrs Hudson hadn’t said a word about letting anyone inside the house, so it was a bit much for Lyesmith to expect her to suddenly remember giving him access to Sherlock and John’s flat. “I don’t think we’re really on first name terms, are we?”

Lyesmith looked down, chastened. “Dreadfully sorry, Watson, old chap.” His eyes twinkled through his lashes and he laughed. Almost against his will, John laughed too. It was difficult to hate this man, even if he was very capable of remembering who his enemies were. He shook his head.

“What you’re obviously missing is that Sherlock has no sense of humour.” Lyesmith rolled his eyes again, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh, you’re right,” he said, “jokes are _never_ funny when the victim has no sense of humour.” Another person might have said target. Lyesmith said victim. John tucked that observation away. Lyesmith looked distant for a moment, as if he were remembering some other victim of his with no sense of humour. John tucked away his look of mixed affection and longing as well, just in case. The silence stretched out a little too long, and both Lyesmith and John took a hasty pull from their respective drinks.

John coughed uncomfortably, then nudged Lyesmith’s elbow. Lyesmith glanced down at his sleeve dubiously at the touch. “That business with the ‘red headed league’, though, that was good. That actually got a laugh out of him, so well done.”

“I’m honoured,” Lyesmith drawled, but the twinkle in his eye was creeping back. “How did he like the trick with Deanna’s will?” Deanna Grace was a wealthy Londonite in a coma whose living will Sherlock was certain would implicate Lyesmith in an actual _crime_ at last. Sherlock had sulked for a week when it had disappeared from the locked and incidentally guarded safe while he and John had raced to recover it. And the only woman who had read the thing suffered a sudden bout of apparently genuine amnesia before moving to Bali.

“He’s still trying to figure out just how you did it,” John shrugged. Lyesmith was grinning as he took a sip from his glass, his eyes absently scanning the room as John talked. “Me, I think there’s something in what you’re doing that people like us aren’t meant to understand, but you don’t say something like that to Sherlock.”

At that Lyesmith paused, and lowered the glass slowly. John felt like he had the man’s full attention and his heart gave an inconvenient thud. Lyesmith cocked his head to one side quizzically. “I think, Mister Watson, that I may have done you a disservice in overlooking you.”

John shifted in his seat. “With Sherlock around? No, you were right. It would be a bit boring trying to torment me.” He took another drink, casual as you like. “Oh, and it’s ‘Doctor’ Watson, thanks.”

Lyesmith picked up his own drink again, but he was still watching John through slightly narrowed eyes. John sighed. “Listen,” he said. “It’s not just for Sherlock’s sake that I’m here. I think you made a mistake when you picked Sherlock for your... victim. He’s got some dangerous people hanging around him.” John had only come inside for a quick menace and hopefully to get something from Lyesmith that Sherlock could use, but against all odds he found that he liked the man. Even watching the effects his cases had on Sherlock was kind of fun. He didn’t think Lyesmith deserved the shitstorm he was calling down on himself. “You’re very clever,” he said carefully, “and I get that you need, I dunno, an audience, but I think you’re in over your head here.” Lyesmith scoffed so quietly John almost missed it. He leaned in, just trying to make the man listen. “Moriarty’s got three separate contracts out on you, and that’s just what Scotland Yard knows about. I know you have this idea that you’re untouchable--” immortal, Sherlock had said. _The man behind this behaves like he thinks he’s immortal,_ “--but London is full of the kind of killer that could ruin anyone’s day.”

“Yes, Jim Moriarty. That was a pity. I had hopes that the two of us would get along so well.”

John said nothing. He knew that egos like Moriarty and Lyesmith didn’t mix well. But you didn’t say that to egos like Moriarty and Lyesmith. “Doctor Watson,” Lyesmith took on a sardonically placating tone, “I appreciate your concern, really I do. It’s been a long while since anyone’s shown... well, for me...” The sentence wound down, sarcasm draining, and Lyesmith licked his lips uncomfortably before bending to look at the dregs of his wineglass.

John thought about being a combat medic, and having to be all things to all men. The sergeant, the private, the therapist and confessional. He reached out to touch Lyesmith, pressed his empty hand to the bar instead. “I understand, you know,” he said. “Seen that look a hundred times before.”

Lyesmith didn’t look at him. “What look, Doctor Watson?”

“That one that’s right there behind the smile. You’re a man with regrets, a lot of them. But Scotland Yard doesn’t really take excuses well. And neither does Jim Moriarty.”

Head still bent, his lips twisted in an ugly approximation of a smile. John almost held his breath. That was strange, he thought; it had been a while since he had been genuinely scared of any of Sherlock’s enemies, and he’d thought Lyesmith was harmless. But the bitterness in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders gave John pause. Somehow looking at the man’s profile he found himself thinking of spiders, snakes and coyotes, and old, old stories. The name _Lyesmith_ tasted odd in his thoughts for a moment until he shook his head. “John,” the trickster said in a low voice, “If playing with your friend Sherlock is what gives me respite, then rest assured it will continue. For as long as it works.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t. Playing with Sherlock doesn’t magically make the past go away. Believe me, I know.” Lyesmith looked up at him, but John pressed on. He fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a small card. He always picked up a couple every week, just out of habit. “There is a woman I know. There’s her card. Sherlock thinks she’s rubbish, which is why I’m still seeing her. She might be able to help.”

The look Lyesmith gave him then was pure astonishment, which quickly melted into a wryly lifted eyebrow. John laughed, and Lyesmith laughed with him, shaking his head. “You know,” John shrugged. “It’s just a thought.”

He stood, and shrugged the coat over his shoulders. Lyesmith took a breath, held it without speaking for a moment.

“I only ever did what I thought was right.” There were unspoken words in there, and somehow John could hear them, _he wasn’t ready_ and _I showed him what he needed to see._

“Have an honest conversation about it, and you might someday believe that.” He turned for the door. Sherlock would have managed to flag down a taxi by now.

Halfway out of the bar, he turned back. Lyesmith had the card in his hand. “Lyesmith?” The man grimaced at the sound of the name, setting the card back down, and John wished oddly that he’d called something else. “Deanna Grace,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me how you did do it? Just for Sherlock’s peace of mind.”

Lyesmith visibly composed his features into a mischievous smile. “It’s a trick done with magnets and mirrors.”

“Ah,” John said. “Right.”

Lyesmith stood and fussed with his coat for a moment before walking to the opposite exit. He left the card on the bar where it lay.

\---

“You didn’t forget your coat,” said Sherlock as John joined him outside. No taxi in sight. John sighed and started scanning the road.

“Yes, I did. Wasn’t carrying it when I left, was I?”

Sherlock sniffed. “I didn’t say you hadn’t left it. I merely observed that you didn’t forget. You folded it before you put it on the chair, and you never do that in public. It’s easier to put it back on when it isn’t folded, and you are nothing if not pragmatic, John. It’s a cold night out tonight, ergo; you intended to leave the coat.” He spoke without any real interest, just pointing out the facts. His eyes had not left the corner of the road, and his hand was still held out to attract a cab driver’s attention.

John looked at him sidelong. “You did not guess I was going to leave my coat the minute I put it down.”

“I knew.”

“Yeah, well, I knew you knew.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.”

“...what did Lyesmith have to say?”

John was spared from answering when a taxi came around the corner, and he had to run into the road to flag it down.


End file.
